


The Flight

by BlueMasquerade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Destiel Harlequin Challenge, Dragon!Cas, M/M, Security Guard Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 13:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMasquerade/pseuds/BlueMasquerade
Summary: Castiel Novak became a top art thief thanks to his secret identity—a dragon, he can literally fly away from the scene of the crime. Next up: reclaiming a priceless painting out from under the snout of Lord Michael, North America’s fearsome dragon ruler. True, he’s never had to work in the midst of Earth’s most spectacular nuptials before. Keeping his identity hidden will demand he get creative, to say the least.Dean Winchester has one last chance to prove himself. As Lord Michael’s’ interim security head, he’ll ensure the world’s most publicized interspecies wedding happens without a hitch. That means keeping an extra close eye on the event designer’s hot assistant. He’s adorable, but something’s not quite right.Fumbling his way through floral arrangements and priceless vases turns out to be the least of Castiel’s problems. Crushing on Michael’s hottest human henchman was not part of the plan, and neither was revealing his—ahem—ferocious side. But when his archrival shows up to nab the very same painting he’s after, all bets are off…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as part of the Destiel Harlequin Challenge. There were a lot of awesome prompts, so it was hard to narrow it down to which I most wanted.
> 
> Here's the original prompt:
> 
> Savannah Cavenaugh became a top art thief thanks to a secret ability—a dragonmorph, she can literally fly away from the scene of the crime. Next up: stealing a priceless painting out from under the snout of Lord Relobu, North America's fearsome dragon ruler. True, she's never had to work in the midst of Earth's most polarizing nuptials before. Keeping her identity hidden will demand she get creative, to say the least.  
> Cameron Shaw has one last chance to prove himself. As Lord Relobu's interim security head, he'll ensure the world's first interspecies wedding happens without a hitch. That means keeping an extra close eye on the wedding planner's pretty young assistant. She's adorable, but something's not quite right.
> 
> Fumbling her way through bouquets and linens turns out to be the least of Savannah's problems. Crushing on Relobu's hottest human henchman was not part of the plan, and neither was revealing her—ahem—ferocious side. But when her archrival shows up to nab the very same painting she's after, all bets are off…

Two dragons twined about each other in the sunset sky, gold and red sinuous necks twisted about one another, tails wrapped in a perfect interlace knot. Their scales glittered metallic in the lowering sun, limned in the fading light. Grace and power was defined by the tension of muscles, the exhilaration of freefall, wings tucked just so, ready to snap out and catch the air at the critical moment. The ground was so far below that it was little but a vague indistinct haze of color. The image was vibrant, glowing, intense.

Beautiful.

The image on the tablet was so much less than the reality, however. Seven months. Seven long months since the raid on Enoch River had succeeded in ripping the Novak Wing’s greatest element of Hoard away from them. The cost had been dozens of lives. Most of those lives had been human, people who had chosen to become part of the Wing’s community. Those lives were, in the end, far more important than ‘The Flight’, yet the painting was more than just a magnificent piece of art. The artist had woven lost magic into every brush stroke, imbuing the piece with the very essence of what it was to be a dragon. The image was a representation of the mating flight of the greatest of their ancestors, Novak herself, claiming her mate and founding their Wing with the ideals of community and coexistence with the humans of the world.

“Just another few days,” Charlie said, touching Castiel’s shoulder soothingly. “And then we’ll have it back.”

“Yes. And then we will have it back.” He turned off the tablet, turning towards her.

“Nothing more we can do to prepare tonight, though.” She flopped down onto the apartment’s couch. “We should go out. Have a drink or three. Relax a little before Operation Recovery goes into full swing.”

Castiel considered that. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Really? Perhaps I’m right?” She popped up straight, her jaw dropping.

He scowled at her. “I’m not always anti-social.”

“No, you’re right. You’re not always anti-social. Just 95% of the time when you’re away from home. And I get it. I do. When you’re on the job you have to be so careful not to give yourself away. That takes constant effort and vigilance, and you do it better than anyone else.”

If it was anyone else he’d think they were trying to flatter him in order to get something from him, but Charlie always said exactly what she was thinking. She was right, though. He tended to keep to himself when he wasn’t on the case. An accidental slip in a social situation could spell disaster.

In his experience very few humans would fail to notice if his fingers suddenly lengthened and hardened into sharp talons, or if his pupils turned to slits and the irises began to glow. Preventing that from happening took mental discipline, and was exhausting.

He stood up. “We aren’t often in the city, though. We should take advantage of the opportunity.” He reached for his tan trench coat and slipped it on, shoved his feet into the slip-on dress shoes he preferred, and waited for his friend.

There was a bar not far from the apartment the Wing kept in the city. Castiel and Charlie found a table off to the side and ordered, craft beers that she chose. “You’re going to like these,” she promised him. “It’s a honey ale. You and your honey thing.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip, and yes, it was pleasant. He could taste the smooth sweetness of the honey under the malt.

“Told you so.” She grinned, settled back and let her gaze sweep across the room. “Ooo, ten o’clock. But don’t stare.”

Castiel arched a brow, then casually shifted in his chair to follow her direction. “What am I not staring at?”

“Hello. That beauty over there in the leather jacket and jeans. Looks like your type, hm?”

The ‘beauty’ in question shifted, and… oh. “Yes, he is aesthetically pleasing,” Castiel had to admit. He was sitting down on a bar stool at the moment, but he guessed the man was tall, certainly fit, and the light from the neon beer sign on the wall behind the bar illuminated short, well-kept hair in alternating gold and green light. Broad shoulders. From this angle the drape of the jacket concealed the torso and hips, but the form in general was definitely his preferred type.

Sharpening his gaze slightly he focused in on the man’s face, in profile. Green eyes, yes. Long lashes. Freckles.

Castiel had a weakness for freckles.

Charlie tapped the server on the arm. “Give that guy over there at the bar another of what he’s having,” she said, tucking a bill into the glass on his tray. “Compliments of my friend here.”

“Charlie,” Castiel warned her. “Most men are not best pleased by that approach.” Humans were confusing. It was fine if they had a preference for one gender over the other, but to be insulted if they were approached by the other made no sense to him. Yet so many men took great offense.

The server followed her gaze. “Oh, Dean? No worries, he won’t come punch your lights out,” he assured them. “He swings both ways.”

Charlie gave Castiel a smug look. “So go ahead and buy him one from my friend.”

 

Dean looked up when Kevin slid another tumbler of whisky onto the counter in front of him. “From the guy in the trench over there,” he said with a grin. “By way of the redhead with him, but he didn’t stop her.”

He followed the direction of the thumb Kevin angled, and saw the guy lift a bottle of beer, tipping it in a salute.

“Huh.” He tipped his head to the side, considering. Guy was cute, definitely, though he looked a bit rumpled. Sort of like Columbo, in those old TV shows Uncle Bobby liked to watch, even the dark messy hair was similar. He also looked vaguely familiar, though Dean couldn’t easily place him.

He hadn’t come here with the intention of hooking up, not tonight. He’d just wanted to relax for an hour or two before the madness resumed, but if an opportunity dropped right into his lap, who was he to ignore it?

He poured the rest of his old drink into the new and headed over to the table with the others. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it over. “I’m Dean.”

“Hi, Dean,” the girl said with a bright, friendly smile. She nudged her companion in the arm, seeming almost giddy. “I’m Charlie, and this is Castiel. He thinks you’re cute.”

The guy— Castiel? that was an odd name — gave her a flat look, but then turned back to Dean. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he said, and gave him an appreciative look, head to toe. Dean’s skin tingled under that regard.

Damn, but his eyes were blue. Clear, beautiful, amazing blue. “Likewise. This is gonna sound cheesy, but I haven’t seen you around here before. You local?” This bar was one of his favorite local hangouts, far enough away from work that he was unlikely to run into his colleagues, close enough to home that he could walk it if he had to.

Castiel shrugged one shoulder. “I haven’t been here long. And it’s only temporary. I’m a florist, employed by Stark Designs.”

Dean snapped his fingers. “That’s why you look familiar.”

“Pardon me?” The guy’s brows both lifted almost to his hairline.

“I’m working security for the wedding,” he explained. “Spent some time vetting out the people doing the event. If you’re working for Stark Designs, you would have come through the process.”

“Ah. Yes, undoubtedly so. I would imagine that security for the wedding of the year is very serious business.”

“Of the year?” Charlie broke in. “Dude, we are talking at least the wedding of the decade. More like of the century, possibly the biggest wedding in recorded history as far as that goes. The dragon ruler of the entire continent marrying a human woman? It’s huge.”

Dean chuckled. “She’s not wrong,” he pointed out.

Castiel tipped his head to one side, then dipped his chin. “In that case, I stand corrected.”

“What do you do for Stark?”

“I have not had this job very long. I am one of the many hired specifically for this event. I will be working primarily on the reception installation. There are a great number of cut flowers that are part of the design. They cannot be arranged according to Mr. Stark’s specifications very much ahead of time, for obvious reason. Many of the flowers in the design will not last long after they first bloom, and they need to be in peak condition. The sheer number of blooms in the plan is astounding, so many hands are needed to put the floral sculptures together. Ahead of the arrival of the flowers, the actual supports will be constructed and put in place. It’s a very detailed project plan.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. The whole thing is a logistical behemoth. You guys actually start on the courtyard tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then.”

“Is that where you’re working? At the courtyard?”

“Well, the palace in general.” Dean knew better than to get too specific. He wasn’t just another security guard; he was in charge, at least temporarily. That thought made him scowl. Why his boss had to get sick right now, of all times… and it wasn’t even like it was some horrible disease, when he might still be annoyed with him but would at least feel guilty about it. No. It was just stupid. Plain old stupid, and now Dean had the headache of coordinating Lord Michael’s security for his wedding.

Castiel tipped his head to the side again. “You seem displeased by that.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Nothing.”

Charlie finished off her beer and set it down on the table with a thunk, possibly louder than intended judging by the way she jumped, then laughed. “Okay, boys. You know, I think I’m going to just head on back home, leave you two alone.” She grinned and actually winked at Castiel.

“Charlie— ”

“No, no, I won’t hear any protests. La la la.” She literally covered her ears, then stood up, leaned over to whisper something in Castiel’s ear. A faint blush rose to color the tips of his ears, then she kissed him on the cheek. “Toodles, dudes. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Well, I take that back. Because, you know. There’s lots of fun you could get up to that I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Anyhow. See ya on the flip side.” She waved, and then she was gone.

Dean chuckled. “She seems like a handful.” He shifted over to the chair she’d abandoned, bringing his tumbler of whisky with him and taking another sip, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat.

“She is a good friend. With good intentions. Sometimes she is enthusiastic in pursuing them.”

“I could tell.” He grinned. “For the record, I’m good with it.”

Castiel smiled, a small half smile that seemed almost shy. He moved, bumped the table, making his beer bottle rock. His hand shot out to catch it, but instead of capturing it he knocked it over instead, spilling it directly into Dean’s lap.

“Oh no, oh shit, I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed, searching for a napkin.

Dean pushed back away, looking as the liquid seeped into his jeans in the most embarrassing spot possible. “It’s okay, relax.” He found a couple paper napkins and dabbed up what he could, and kept any more from dripping over the edge of the table.

“No, it’s not okay, I spilled on you. I’m so sorry. Sometimes I do things like that when, when, well. When I’m a bit nervous. I shouldn’t be nervous, it’s just that you’re so pretty, I mean handsome, because usually men don’t like to be called pretty though I don’t understand what’s wrong with it, and this is something else I do when I’m embarrassed, I babble, and I will just shut up now.”

Dean chuckled. “It’s okay, man, really. But I think I’ll hit the head and rinse out as much as I can.” He didn’t want to walk around smelling like a brewery, even if he was just going home after this.

“Yes, yes, of course. That makes perfect sense.” Castiel sat back, chewing on his lower lip. “I do apologize. I’ll pay to have them cleaned.”

“Dude, they’re just jeans. They’ll be fine after a trip through the washer.” He stood up, moved behind Castiel and clapped him on the shoulder. Dude was warm, warmer than he would have expected. Full body blush, maybe?

 

Castiel watched Dean walk away, admiring the rear view despite his embarrassment. The man had a very nice ass, no question about it. Knocking over the beer had been unfortunate. It should perhaps not be a surprise. Usually he had good control, excellent control. His human form was as natural to him as the draconic. _Stupid, stupid. Getting distracted by a pretty pair of eyes, to the point where muscle control is compromised? Stupid._

What was he going to do about this? He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not now, and especially not in front of a member of Lord Michael’s security force. Genuine regret pooled in his stomach, a raw ache he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He hadn’t felt this spark of attraction in a long time, either. Charlie hadn’t been wrong. But Dean had to be off limits. Another time, another place, maybe not. But right here and now, this couldn’t be, no matter how much he might like it.

Staying longer would only make it harder to leave. His head started to ache. He rubbed at his temples, his desires fighting with his logic.

Logic won out.

Heaving a sigh of regret he settled back in his chair. He could just write a quick note, but what would he say? It wouldn’t communicate his genuine regret.

Dean returned shortly, his jeans still bearing a damp spot, though clearly he’d tried to dry it as best as possible. “It’s better, anyhow,” he said, settling down again. “So. Where were we?”

This was difficult, so difficult. Castiel wanted to stare at Dean all night long, perhaps dance, definitely touch. He wondered if his hair was soft or bristly on top, where it was longer. He wondered what those freckles would taste like, what those eyes would look like blown out with passion. Was Dean’s abdomen hard and muscular, or was it softer?

He tightened his hand into a fist. “I was thinking that I should go. If I stay any longer I will be tempted to stay far too late, and I must be at my best tomorrow.”

Dean frowned, a light going out of those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. But then he nodded, once, a short jerk downwards of his chin. “Maybe after the wedding? It’s only a couple more days, and once they’re off on their wedding trip I am taking a whole week off to do nothing but chill the hell out.”

If all went according to plan, Castiel would not be anywhere near here by then. Still… perhaps. Was it wise to keep a sliver of hope that there was any kind of possibility of seeing Dean again? It seemed unlikely.

He couldn’t bring himself to shut the idea down entirely, however. So he nodded, and pulled out his phone. “May I have your number?”

Dean recited it, pulling his own out. Castiel sent him a quick text, so that Dean would have his as well. It was a new phone, a new number, obtained just for this purpose. There would be no history attached to it that could cause problems.

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel stood, lingered for just a moment, resenting his job in a way that he rarely did. “Perhaps I will see you on site.”

“Maybe. I’ll be in touch.” Dean stood as well, extended his hand.

Castiel reached out, their fingers touched, and then their palms. A shiver of attraction trilled through his body, electric sparks tingling, racing, rebounding back again to settle in his chest with an ache of regrets. Dean’s thumb rubbed over his knuckle, just this side of a caress, and Castiel’s mind went places it shouldn’t. He made a sound of unhappiness, then pulled his hand away again and shoved it deep into the pockets of his trench.

“I will be in touch as well. And perhaps after the wedding… perhaps.” Unlikely. But perhaps he would allow himself that tiny bit of recklessness, or at least the hope of it. “Good bye.”

“Not good bye. See you later.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Ahem!”

Castiel jumped, his attention ripped away from the magnificent work of art hanging on the wall of the antechamber. Naomi Haversham, wedding planner extraordinaire, looked at him with a narrowed gaze, the toes of her black pumps tapping against the marble floor.

“Sorry,” he muttered, casting his gaze down and scurrying forward to catch up with his colleagues.

Naomi turned towards Don Stark, Castiel’s boss’ boss and the celebrity event designer who was handling the decor for the ceremony and reception. “I know that your people have likely never been in the palace before, but do ensure that they comport themselves with appropriate decorum.”

“Of course, Ms. Haversham,” he said, directing a stern glare in Castiel’s direction.

He slumped his shoulders and tried to make himself look smaller. He wasn’t small by any means, but usually he was quite good at being unnoticed.

Usually.

Ms. Haversham resumed the brief tour of the area they’d be working in over the next two days, but Castiel paid only enough attention to make sure he didn’t stand out again. Getting this position as part of the floral team hadn’t been easy--and another opportunity like this one wouldn’t come up any time soon. He glanced back towards the vast antechamber doors, distress at the idea of ‘The Flight’ being so proudly displayed making his slow temper start to burn.  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trousers, wincing as he felt the pocket rip inside.

Calm, he told himself. Center. Calm.

Fingernails. Blunt fingernails.

Not talons.

His fingertips stopped tingling, but he kept his hands in his pockets for now just to be safe.

The tour ended where it had begun, in the vast courtyard where the reception after the ceremony would be held. He looked around, impressed despite himself. Lord Michael had reigned over the humans of North America for over two hundred years, and had spared no expense in the construction of his royal palace. The courtyard was open to the sky and large enough for Lord Michael to enjoy in his immense draconic form. There were elaborate fountains and gardens, pathways paved in marble and inlaid with semi-precious stones forming intricate designs. One entire section was cordoned off and transformed into a staging area for the event design team.

The fresh cut flowers wouldn’t be delivered until the wee hours of the morning of the event, the day after tomorrow, but there was a great deal to be done before the flowers arrived. All of the tables and chairs needed to be set up, the dance floor configured, the stage for the bridal party, the sound system, the lighting, the supports for the floral sculptures… the details made his head spin. Who knew it was all so complicated?

Castiel’s application for the temporary position in support of the biggest event of the century listed numerous positions at smaller designers and florists, enough to be considered properly experienced, not so many that his wages would be out of budget. The balance had been carefully researched, and the references carefully coached on how to answer the questions during the screening process.

There had been the weeks of practice working with flowers, taping and wiring and forming them into unnatural arrangements. On some level he objected to that. Personally he preferred wildflowers growing in their natural environments, not these hothouse flowers artificially bred for specific characteristics, fed dye to alter their natural colors, raised with painstaking attention to nutrients, water levels, amounts of sunshine, all to force them to bloom at exactly the right time. Wildflowers attracted bees, who made honey.

Hothouse flowers often didn’t even have a real fragrance.

But needs must, and all that.

“Alright, folks, time to get busy,” Stark said, clapping his hands together.

Castiel looked around as they dutifully returned to the staging area, wondering if Dean was anywhere nearby. He wanted to see the man again, even knowing it would be unwise at best, disastrous at worst. The last thing he needed was for security to be more aware of him than of any of the other workers, no matter the reason. Awareness meant attention, and attention meant reduced opportunity.

Meg, Castiel’s supervisor, gestured to her team and got them started unpacking numerous vases and containers. They all needed to be washed and dried and hand-polished until they gleamed, and carefully. Each piece cost a small fortune. The glass had been hand-blown by some famous west-coast glass artisan, and reputedly used real gold. Of course it used real gold. Michael would never tolerate anything less.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

Castiel blinked and looked to his side. One of the other workers was looking at him, waiting for a response. Kate, he thought her name was. She was young and enthusiastic and outgoing.

“You will have to be more specific,” he said in reply.

“Huh?”

“You said isn’t _it_ beautiful. There are a great many beautiful things here in this courtyard, in this palace. You will have to be more specific.”

“Oh. Well, I meant the vase I’m working on, but yeah, everything is incredible. I can’t wait to see this when it’s done. Mr. Stark’s designs are so spectacular. Everything is going to be so amazing. I just wish I was on the short list to still be here when the reception starts. Everyone who is anyone is going to be here. It’s the wedding of the century, maybe even of the millennia! Lord Michael is actually marrying a human! That’s never been done before. The dragons have always kept to themselves. But he fell in love, and so there’s this wedding, and it’s just so romantic.”

Castiel had significant doubts whether there was actual love and romance involved in this event. Not because dragonkind weren’t capable of loving humans. They could and did spend a great deal of time in human form, and were certainly capable of love and enjoying sexual congress in that form. No, his doubts were grounded in Lord Michael, and of what he knew about Bela Talbot.

But expressing those doubts would not forward his agenda, could in fact draw attention to him, and so he kept them to himself.

“Ah. Yes, the vases are works of excellent craftsmanship.” He ran his polishing cloth over the gently rounded surface of the vase he was cleaning, admiring the way the opalescent colors shimmered in the sun. They would shimmer under the planned candlelight and artfully concealed spotlights and tiny fairy lights as well, multiplying the pinpoints of light into a sparkling wonderland.

“Cas!” Meg called to him. “I need you over here to help move these crates.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He set the vase and cloth down and headed over to her. He was stronger than many of the workers -- stronger even than he let on. Draconic strength was greater than human, even when in human form. He had to be careful to mimic strain when lifting certain items, and to feign being unable to lift others alone.

He watched the workers that were already on the task, paying attention to how much they were struggling to pre-evaluate how much effort he should show. That estimation needed to be adjusted for the fitness level of the people on the task. It was all very complicated. More than once miscalculating human capacity had given him away, when he was younger and first learning how to infiltrate human society without being identified as dragonkin.

Suddenly he stumbled and nearly fell, his foot catching on a box sticking out into his path.

“Watch it!” The warning was too late.

He caught himself against a nearby table, but his momentum jostled it, vases clinking together and rattling. A gasp sounded from the nearby workers. A vase on the end started to roll. Shit, shit, fuck. He lunged forward, but the box tripped him up again. Somehow he managed to twist his body just enough to avoid crashing into the table and taking it down with him.

The vase fell, landing on his back before rolling onto the marble tiled ground.

Meg was there, reaching over him to scoop up the vase, anxiously examining it. “Oh thank God,” she breathed. “You’re a lucky shit, Cas, that you broke its fall. It doesn’t look damaged.” She set it back on the table. “Polish that up again,” she told the person there. Castiel didn’t remember his name.

He rolled over and sat up again, getting to his feet, knowing his face was flushed with mortification. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Yeah, you’d better be sorry,” she snapped. “You break anything you’re gone. You think you’ve seen difficult clients before, you’re mistaken. This is a whole different level of difficult client. If a dragon is unhappy, he might eat you.”

Highly unlikely, even for Michael, but he was well aware that was one urban legend that Michael didn’t feel needed to be corrected.

He brushed himself off, though honestly there was little dust or dirt to remove. He hunched in on himself and followed her the rest of the way to the crates, feeling the gazes of the other workers burrowing into his back. He shivered, not liking the pinpricks of attention.

A shift of movement on the upper level of the arcade caught his attention, and he glanced upward. There was a man there. He shifted his gaze momentarily to the better vision of his dragon form to see him better.

Human. Security, judging by the uniform and the armaments. Black leather jacket with scarlet trim, a stand-up collar with Michael’s sword emblem pinned at the corners, a scarlet shirt under the jacket. The uniform fit the man well, skimming his broad shoulders and the line of his arms. His lower body was hidden behind the pierced marble barrier edging the balcony, his hands lightly gripping the balustrade as he leaned forward, watching Castiel and the aftermath of his nearly disastrous stumble.

Castiel hissed softly when his gaze traveled higher. Dean. It was Dean. The man was… well. He was _beautiful._ He hadn’t misremembered that. His eyes, oh his eyes. Peridot and emerald and jade spangled with citrine, framed with long, thick lashes. A strong jawline with just a hint of red-gold scruff. And then that mouth? Almost feminine in its beauty, perfect bow-shaped upper lip over lusciously plump lower lip, a delicious shade of rose pink. Those lips looked velvety soft. A sharp pang of arousal sliced through him as he imagined what those lips would feel like against his, and pressed against various places on his body.

He could have had that, last night, if only he didn’t have such a well-developed sense of duty and responsibility.

“Cas! Get your ass over here!” Meg growled impatiently. Cas shook his head to clear it, and followed her.

 

Dean Winchester, Interim Chief of Security, allowed himself the luxury of being distracted by the commotion in the courtyard, knowing that his staff wouldn’t let it disrupt their assignments. Damn Rufus for passing this off on him. He hadn’t even gotten injured on the job. He’d gotten salmonella from a damned potato salad at a fucking community picnic, and gotten sicker than a dog, hospitalized for a week and still too weak and disoriented to be trusted with the security for the biggest event in Dean’s lifetime. Hell, this was probably the biggest event in ten lifetimes.

He hadn’t wanted this responsibility. Being Rufus’ second was one thing. Being in charge was something else entirely.

At least Rufus had been there for the months and months of intense planning. All Dean had to do was make sure the plans were executed, and be nimble enough to adjust the plans when reality inevitably didn’t fall into line the way it was supposed to.

Two days to go until The Event. The activities were ramping up. Dean had staff at the caterers, at the airport and train depot, monitoring the freeways and secondary roads. He had people watching the palace and watching the nearby cathedral, with checkpoints and security scans of everyone coming and going. Everyone who’d been issued a pass had undergone rigorous security screening.

Still, Dean was uncomfortable. The stakes were so high. Not everyone approved of a human marrying a dragon, even when that dragon was the ruler of the whole continent.

To be perfectly honest he wasn’t so sure how he felt about it himself, though that had more to do with the individuals involved than the interspecies nature of their relationship. Lord Michael was an arrogant prick, and Bela Talbot was a scheming social climber out for herself.

That was above his pay grade, though. His job was to make sure the nuptials went off without a hitch, at least as far as the security for the event was concerned. Nothing could happen to Lord Michael, the future Lady Bela, or any of their illustrious guests for the next week or so.

Piece of cake.

Hah.

Dean frowned and turned his attention to the beehive of activity below. There were so many people. Some were working on setting up the lights, ladders and those cherry-picker things lifting people in the air to fasten nets of tiny lights overhead. Others were working at a dozen long tables, unpacking accessories and cleaning them. Most of the people at the tables were female, but there was a guy among them, standing beside a petite blond, head tilted to the side as he listened.

That head tilt was familiar. He couldn’t quite make out the details from this distance, but Dean imagined there would be a faint frown between the guy’s brows with how intently he was concentrating on whatever she was saying.

 _Castiel_ , Dean thought, a weird tightness in his chest. He scowled. A distraction like Cas was the last thing he needed right now. He certainly didn’t need to be noticing that the guy’s dark trousers fit his ass just so.

The guy turned his head suddenly, then nodded towards another woman. Meg Masters, he recalled, one of the work team supervisors working under Don Stark, the event designer. He remembered her from the security briefing with the managers and supervisors because she’d had a couple snarky comments to make. He hadn’t been intended to overhear them. They were cutting, but also witty and on the mark.

Cas was threading his way between the tables towards another stack of crates, watching Masters. Dean saw the threat before anything happened -- a box sticking out rather than being safely tucked under the table, right in the guy’s pathway.

“Watch--” he said, knowing he was too far away to be heard. Sure enough,  Cas’ stride pushed right into the box. He stumbled, arms coming out to stabilize his balance, but in the process knocking against a table holding about a dozen of the fancy ass vases that showed up the other day. The table juddered, the guy’s foot slipped, and he went down hard. The vases clinked together loudly enough that Dean could hear them from halfway across the courtyard.

As if in slow motion he watched one rock back and forth, back and forth, then topple over, rolling off the end of the table and onto Cas’ back. Thank God it was his back and not the hard, unforgiving ground. Unless it was heavy enough to hurt? He didn’t think it looked heavy enough to hurt, but if it landed wrong?

Cas lay there for a moment, catching his breath, then pushed himself up to his feet again, hunching his shoulders, clearing wishing the ground would open up under him. Poor guy. Was clumsiness just part of his DNA?

Then he looked up, straight towards Dean.  

The sizzling snap of electricity absolutely had to be his imagination. It had to be.

Dean shook it off when the earpiece buzzed at him, demanding his attention. Devereaux again. The guy was good with the electronic security measures, and a little paranoia was good, but damn. Not every little blip or bloop required a full-scale response.

He paused, though, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts until he found it. Castiel.

**Hey Cas — you okay? Saw you trip.**

It was only a matter of moments later that he got a response.

**I am embarrassed that you saw that. Thank you for your concern. I am fine. A little sore, but unharmed save for my dignity.**

Dean grinned. **Glad to hear it. Ice that when you get home.**

He tucked his phone away again and headed off to deal with Devereaux.

 

It was late; Dean should call it a day soon and get his four hours. Still, he should make one more circuit of the courtyard. He’d just gotten back from the cathedral and a long discussion with Garth. The guy was even worse with the puppy dog enthusiasm than Sam. It was fucking exhausting, and then there had been the parting hug. He was annoying as all hell, but somehow he was growing on Dean.

Well. Just more evidence that Dean himself was out of his mind.

He checked in with the surveillance guys before heading out to do his walk-through. Electronics were good and all, but he didn’t completely trust them. He liked to see things himself. Sometimes there was something out of place, some little thing that just felt off, that no technology was ever going to catch.

Maybe, a traitorous thought whispered, he would even see Cas again.

The event crew were still at work, though he thought most of them were a second crew. Stark had claimed that there was no way he could get everything done in two days; he needed a week. Naomi had backed him up on that. Security had countered with two and a half days, but he could work 24 hours a day. He hadn’t been happy, but when they’d added a storage space that he could have things delivered before the window opened, he’d accepted it. Or else he’d realized that was as much as he was going to get, and his other option was to step aside and let someone else handle the job.

Despite having worked at the palace for what, five years now? Dean still could admit to being impressed by the place, at least to himself. All of the halls were huge and tall, built to accommodate Lord Michael in his dragon form. He hadn’t met any other dragons. Scuttlebutt was that Lord Michael didn’t like to share with others of his kind, though he did have a handful of underlings. Uncle Bobby claimed that not all dragons were like Michael, that some of the other Wings, which is what they called their clans or tribes or whatever, were more social and community oriented, though their numbers on the whole were small, and they claimed vast territories. Lord Michael claimed the entire continent of North America. Every so often Bobby would find obscure news stories about some remote community that had been pillaged and razed by the dragon host.

Bobby’s theory was that the communities were the homes of some dragonkin that weren’t sworn to Michael’s rule, even claimed to have some proof, but he’d made Dean and Sam swear to secrecy. Sam spent his time with Bobby working with him on his research, learning more about their dragon overlord, but Dean didn’t have the patience for endless, tedious research. He was a man of action, and hell, if they wanted to know more about dragons, what better way was there than to be in the palace with their illustrious overlord himself?

After his circuit of the courtyard, checking that the placement of the supports all made sense with the plans he’d seen for the elaborate decorations, Dean decided to check the adjacent spaces. Most of the interior was off limits to the event staff, but there were public spaces. There were portable toilets outside for the workers, but portable toilets weren’t even remotely acceptable for the heads of industry, government, and entertainment who were on the guest list for the reception. The catering kitchens were inside as well. Anywhere that guests were permitted was going to be decorated, so the workers had permission to go inside that far, at least.

Dean followed along the corridor towards the bathrooms. When he was nearly there he caught a hint of movement in the general area of the antechamber where Michael waited with his entourage before making any of his formal public addresses. Those were always held in the nearby courtyard. Dean eased back against the wall, taking a moment to assess the environment.

It might be nothing. There were people who had legitimate reason to be here. But one didn’t get to advance in the security field by assuming anything unexpected was legitimate. Assume the worst.

The door to the antechamber remained closed, but there was someone nearby.

Cas.

He was standing near the door, looking in through the glass panel. As Dean watched he reached out to test the door. It was locked. Of course it was locked. There were precious objects in that room. Well, there were precious objects everywhere in the palace, but some of those in the antechamber were more precious than most.

A sense of betrayal rippled through him. What the hell? It shouldn’t feel personal, but it did. He’d liked the guy, dammit. Had he just been lying there in wait, knowing the entire time that Dean was security? Trying to figure out what he could learn?

Dean placed his hand on his sidearm, loosening the strap that held it in place, then stepped forward with purpose. “Hey. Do you have a reason for being back here?”

Cas startled and turned towards him. Dean nearly gasped. Before he hadn’t noticed that he had eyes such an intense blue that they nearly glowed. He hadn’t noticed the unruly way his hair stuck out in various angles, as though someone had just run their hand through it. A tingle of attraction raced through him, just like it had last night.

Dean pushed it aside. He was on duty. He ran into attractive people now and then. Didn’t mean he needed to act on it.

Castiel cast another glance through the window, then his shoulders sagged and he turned back towards Dean. “Hello, Dean. I got disoriented returning from the rest rooms, and then I couldn’t resist stopping for a moment to admire the art. It’s magnificent, isn’t it? My apologies, however. I am aware that loitering is against the rules.”

His voice was low, gravelly. Dry, maybe, without a lot of inflection. Flat. He held himself with a certain stillness.

Dean wanted to believe him, but he was too well trained to let that influence his job performance. “Going to have to log it. Do you have your ID and access card on you? Gotta check. Rules.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He reached to unclip the cards from the hem of his shirt and handed them over.

Dean took them and looked them over. “Cas Elliot.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean looked up sharply. Had there been something more than simple acknowledgement in that tone? Maybe a hint of flirtation, a suggestion of things that he had no business thinking while he was on duty?

He could see the consideration in those blue, blue eyes, weighing and discarding various responses. Finally Cas shrugged one shoulder and tilted his head to one side, meeting Dean’s gaze unapologetically. “Do you know anything about the art?”

“Not a lot. Not my job.” It was, perhaps, misleading. He certainly knew more about the collection than he generally let on, if only through osmosis. Bobby and by extension Sam sometimes fell into discussions about the royal art collection over beer and burgers, debating the significance of different works, and where they’d originally come from.

“Hm. I have studied some art.” He turned back towards the closed door to the antechamber, where that big painting of two dragons fighting was centered in the glass. “This painting, for example. Do you know anything about it?”

“Not really. It’s skillfully done. They look almost alive, the way they’re fighting.”

“They’re not fighting. They’re mating. This piece is called ‘The Flight’, and it is ancient. Very important, in the world of dragons. It has only recently come into the collection of Lord Michael.”

“Okay...”

Cas turned towards him. Dean felt that damned flare of interest again, and ruthlessly pushed it down. This was not, repeat _not_ , the time for anything other than absolute focus and professionalism, no matter how attractive and appealing Cas might be.

“If you have time, sometime, you might find its recent history interesting. Before it came here, ‘The Flight’ was held in a community called Enoch River.”

That name sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it right at the moment. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the art history lesson, but you need to get back to your work. I’ll escort you.” He made a gesture back towards the courtyard entrance and waited for Cas to precede him.

He watched Dean a moment longer, then nodded once and turned on his heel, moving silently back towards the chaos of the courtyard. Dean followed, and most emphatically did not notice that he had a nice ass. Or nice legs, muscular runner’s legs. Nope. He did not notice that. Not at all.

Cas paused and looked over his shoulder at Dean, waiting a moment for him to catch up.

“Have you worked here long?”

“Few years. You been doing floral shit for long?” Turn it back on the other guy.

“A few years. I like working with my hands. I’m good at it.” His gaze dropped south.

Fuck. Awkward flirting. “I’ll just bet you are.” And did he really just say that? His mouth did not have permission to say that.

Cas’ mouth tipped up in a faint smile. Dean’s heartbeat tripped over itself in response. “Oh yes. I am. I enjoy making floral arrangements. The elaborate ones that Mr. Stark is known for are challenging to execute, so I enjoy that. But I also enjoy much simpler arrangements. Roses on a piano. Tulips on an organ.”

Dean choked on a laugh. And yeah, he did not imagine the sparkle of amusement and self satisfaction. “Are all your jokes that bad?”

“Mm. Was it a joke?”

“Lines, then. All your lines.”

“Regrettably, I have heard that they are.” The sorrow in his tone was pathetically fake.

“You should work on that, then.”

“You can tell a lot by whether someone laughs or groans at them. Or, sometimes, a combination of the two.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What can you tell?”

“If someone actually laughs, especially when it’s obvious they also wanted to groan at just how bad it was, then their sense of humor is stronger than their sense of intellectual superiority. I don’t mind actual intellectual superiority, mind you. But I prefer not to have to deal with a condescending attitude.”

“Oh, hey, I feel you there. My baby brother is smart, a genius, but he’s not an asshole about it. Then there are some other people who look down their nose and sneer just because you don’t know something they know. Let me tell you, buster, there are plenty of things they don’t know, too. Different strokes for different folks. Just because I don’t happen to be interested in the same things doesn’t make me an idiot.”

They emerged from the interior of the palace to the courtyard. Cas paused, turned his shoulders toward Dean. “Thank you for walking me back here, and my apologies, again, for creating any problems.”

“Just don’t do it again, hm? And hey,  you feeling any aftereffects from that accident earlier?”

“Please don’t remind me. Tripping over a box was not one of my finer moments. But I am well, thank you. Still a bit sore, but it is nothing I can’t work through.”

“Good. Take some aspirin or something when you can. See you around, maybe.” He reached out and patted the other man on the back.

“I do hope so, yes. Thank you.” Cas nodded, then reluctantly turned and strode across the courtyard back to the designers’ staging area and his world of wire supports, greenery, fancy vases, and green floral tape.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel returned to the city apartment late that evening, exhausted after the double shift. He set his keys down on the console table right inside the door and looked into the living room, spotting Charlie, her face lit by the glow of her laptop monitor. “Hello, Charlie.”

He headed straight for the refrigerator, scanning the contents. Ah, there it was--a large bottle of mango/passionfruit juice blended with protein powder. Even in his human form he needed more protein. The powdered form wasn’t as satisfying as a large medium rare steak fresh off the grill, but it was fast and easy and would suffice for now.

“Hi Cas,” she replied, not looking away from the display. When she was absorbed in something she could be incredibly focused.

He opened the bottle and drank a third of the contents in a single long pull, wiping his mouth afterwards. Plucking an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter, he went to sit down beside her on the sofa. “What are you working on?”

She glanced at him sidelong, the bridge of her nose wrinkled in concentration. “Something you’re not going to want to hear,” she admitted. “We’ve got a bit of a potential problem.” She typed another search string into the parameter box, scanning over the results with her eyes. Most of it didn’t make sense; she tended to use raw data in her analyses, because she could and because she could get more information on a screen than if she ran it through an interpretive algorithm. He thought that’s what she’d called it before, anyhow. He often got lost when she was talking about how she knew what she knew.

He and most other dragons of his acquaintance understood the value of technology. They simply weren’t good at it. Gabriel had even less patience with devices than Castiel did, with the notable exception of DVDs. Those, he was enamored with.

“What kind of a potential problem?”

“Gordon Walker.”

Castiel looked up sharply. “What about him?”

She sighed, shifted to tuck her legs up and patted the cushion next to her. Castiel sat beside her.

Bringing up a program on her laptop, she pointed at a map. “I’ve been tracking him, as much as I can. Him and all of the Walkers, just like I do all of the Wings that we have conflicts with.”

A wave of fondness swept through him at her word choice. We. She wasn’t a dragon, but she considered herself part of the Novak Wing, even after everything that had happened. Maybe the more so because of it. Shared crises tended to either bring people together or drive them apart. Those humans who remained with the Wing were fiercely devoted to the Novaks, and vice versa.

“Evidence is popping up that he’s here, too. In town for the wedding. And that’s not good news. He never shows up unless he’s planning to make trouble, and we can be sure that he’s as interested in ‘The Flight’ as we are, if for entirely different reasons.”

Cas growled without realizing it, a deep sound that had echoes of a dragon roar behind it.

“No matter how many times it has happened, I still fail to understand how destroying pieces of great cultural significance can ever be a good idea, no matter whether or not they represent your own culture.”

“I know, right? At least with Michael he just stole it to win one over on us, and technically he’s still at least part Novak Wing himself even if he claims Anges Wing.”

It didn’t work quite that way; dragonkind didn’t trace genealogy in percentages the way humans did. But nothing would convince Charlie that Michael’s Novak ancestry meant little. She did have a point, though. His reasons for wanting ‘The Flight’ were because it was important and because of the latent magic in it. The blood lineage might be enough that it would resonate with him, if not as strongly as with those who claimed Novak.

“Have you told any of the others yet?”

“Not yet. The alert only just pinged on my tracking software. I’ll call Gabriel and let him know, but you’re the only one on the premises, so it’s going to fall mainly on you.”

He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. It might help if he could shift into his dragon form, but that wasn’t an option, not in this decidedly human-scaled apartment. Even if he was outside he wouldn’t risk it. Michael would undoubtedly sense the presence of another dragon, and he would have no opportunity to get back inside the palace once the dragon ruler knew he was there. His only course of action was to remain in human form until it was time to leave. That element of the unexpected was critical to their success.

“How precise is your tracking?”

“Not precise enough.” She was clearly frustrated by that. “I’ve got a 92 percent probability that he’s in town, and although there’s a chance he’s not after the same thing we are, it seems ludicrous to assume he’s not. The Walkers have destroyed pieces of your Hoard before, and haven’t made any secret of their intention to wipe out every bit of it. Taking out ‘The Flight’ would, to their way of thinking, be a blow to both Novak and Anges.”

“Not just to their way of thinking. It _would_ be a blow to both. Not the crippling blow they undoubtedly hope for, but a serious one. Do we have anyone else in the area?” He knew the answer to that. They deliberately kept their presence small. Charlie was here because Castiel needed some support, and her skills with electronics would help when it came time to execute the retrieval of their Hoard.

There wouldn’t be any other Novak dragonkind within five hundred miles. It was too risky. There might, possibly, be some of their human Wing.

Possibly.

Charlie worked some of her magic on the laptop. “No one else in the city, but there are some people we might be able to call on, in a crunch.”

“The people Gabriel has been feeding information to? Educating, as he calls it?”

“Mm, yes. His pet project, to counter Michael’s more egregious fallacies.”

Castiel tapped his fingers against his thigh, working through various ideas. This was… it was risky. Incredibly risky. But there was no way he could track down Walker in the amount of time they had. He could be anywhere. So risky, yes, but more risky than the alternative?

That he wasn’t certain of.

“What about Dean?” he finally said.

“Dean? You mean, hot dude at the bar Dean?”

Castiel suppressed a sigh. “The man we met at the bar, yes. You recall he works security for the palace. He would be in a position to watch for Walker. If he knew it was important.”

“But… that might give you away, too.”

“It might,” Castiel agreed. “But honestly? I would rather fail at recovering the painting than have Walker succeed at destroying it.”

Charlie blew out her breath. “Good point. Okay. Hm. I could send in an anonymous tip, but the problem there is that they’re probably receiving a lot of anonymous tips, because people are jerks that way, and there’s no guarantee they’d take it seriously enough.”

Castiel nodded. He knew that. “The best way to get them to take it seriously would be for it to come from a trusted source. I don’t know that I would qualify as that. But I may be the best chance we have, there.”

“Ugh. Not a lot of good choices, there.”

“No. Let’s consider our options a little longer, but we can’t afford to take too long to decide. Perhaps bring in Gabriel as well, so that it isn’t our decision alone.”

Charlie nodded. “Good idea.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she gathered more information, more data, and they put together some different contingency plans.

 

It was late by the time Dean made it back to his apartment. He really should have stayed in the room he was assigned at the palace, but he needed a little distance, a little privacy. He’d been thinking, when he could, about the things Cas had said, specifically about his reference to Enoch River. He knew he’d heard something about that recently, he just couldn’t place it, and a quick Google search didn’t return anything in the way of results.

He pulled off his boots and then the rest of his uniform, flopping on his bed in his boxers and tee. He checked his phone; two messages from his brother Sam. He hadn’t talked to him in a while. It would be a nice distraction to think about something other than security concerns (or a certain blue-eyed florist with sexy bed head)  for a while. And maybe Sam would be able to place the reference. It was something of a specialty for him, the big nerd.

“Hey Dean,” Sammy answered the phone. “Didn’t think you’d actually call me back.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have. But I have a couple minutes before I fall asleep on you, so what the hell.”

“How’s it going, then? Front row seats to the event of the century and all that?”

Dean groaned. “As if I even care. You know I’d rather be fishing on the lake with a cooler full of beers. But it’s… crazy, honestly. So many people. There are always so many people at the palace, but right now it’s insane with all of the vendors. There are a few guests, too, though not many are being allowed to stay right at the palace. Most of them are expected to find their own accommodations and are only allowed on the grounds during the reception.”

“Makes sense. You having to deal directly with Lord Michael?”

“Not much, thank God. Rufus did all of that before he ate that salad. See, I told you that rabbit food isn’t as good for you as you’re always saying.”

“Potato salad isn’t the same thing as a green salad, Dean, you know that.”

“Mrrff. Hey, got a question for you, Moose. You know anything about a place called Enoch River? I did a quick search on it, but didn’t find anything. It sounds familiar, though.”

“Yeah, we talked about it about half a year ago, Dean, when we were at Bobby’s. Enoch River is, was, one of those communities that was destroyed. Never really made any of the news cycles because it was a relatively small rural community.”

There was something about the tone of Sam’s voice that made Dean sit up again. He remembered, now. He’d been on leave, visiting Bobby Singer at his home three states away, and Sam had been there too. It had been one of those late night conversations, when the two of them were geeking out about some esoteric scrap of information or another while Dean nursed a beer, half listening to them, half watching a Dr. Sexy marathon on the television.

He closed his eyes, reaching back into his memory for more details. If Sam and Bobby were interested in it, that meant it was somehow tied to dragon culture. Ah. Their working theory that the handful of dragon Wings in North America were not so much friends as bitter rivals, and Lord Michael the worst of them. It wasn’t enough for him to rule over the human population, he wanted to be dominant over the other dragons as well. Bobby was of the opinion that the humans were a means to an end, and it was the dragons that truly mattered to him.

So Sam and Bobby being interested in the community meant that there was at least some evidence that dragons lived there, dragons that weren’t sworn to Lord Michael and therefore any peace between them was uneasy at best.

“Huh. Okay.” He had to think about how to ask the next question, so that Sam would understand while it still being vague enough that it wouldn’t ping anyone or anything that might be monitoring the conversation. Just mentioning Enoch River might have already tagged them, which just meant he needed to be even more careful.

If only Sam were right here, so they could speak in person rather than over the phone.

“One of those freaky accidents, huh? Act of God?”

“Something like that.” The dryness in Sam’s tone was the answer he was looking for. So not an Act of God, but rather a raid by one Wing against another -- and most likely by Lord Michael against a rival.

He had so many more questions, but this wasn’t the time. “We still on for next week, after this mayhem is over?”

“Absolutely.”

He’d ask his questions then, about what this Enoch River had to do with the painting the cute florist was so interested in.


	4. Chapter 4

When morning finally arrived Castiel was more than ready to be active again. He still felt uneasy about the plan he and Charlie had developed, but Gabriel had reluctantly signed off on it, so it was a go.

The wedding was the next day, and there was still so much to do. Most of the structures and supports had been assembled yesterday. Today the potted plants would be installed. Many of the greens were still rooted and therefore didn’t have to wait until the last minute like the cut flowers did. There was trailing ivy, wisteria, white lilacs. The colors were mostly whites, sometimes shading to peach and pink. Roses and ranunculus and other blossoms would be wired in amongst the ivy and other greenery.

After preparing for so long for this cover, he actually cared about the job and doing it well. He took pride in his efforts, no matter the actual job. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it well, dammit. Above and beyond that, not doing a good job would attract unwanted attention, which needed to be factored in.

But more important yet was the threat of Walker. After getting settled in and doing enough to disappear in the general madness, Castiel excused himself to use the bathroom, taking his phone with him. Once in the privacy of a stall he took it out, looked for Dean in his contacts.

His heart thundered in his chest, and heat rose in his face. This was a risk, a huge risk. Involving anyone on Michael’s official security team could mean terrible things, but if they didn’t do it, and Walker succeeded in getting to ‘The Flight’ before Castiel did…

He pressed the button to text Dean.

**Hello, Dean. This is Castiel. I need to speak to you. Do you have any free time at all this morning? Even five minutes? It’s important.**

There. It was done. Now he just had to wait until Dean texted him back. Hopefully he would. It was entirely possible that he would have his personal phone turned off. If he didn’t hear back within a reasonable amount of time, he would have to take more direct measures.

Castiel hoped it wouldn’t come to that, because more direct measures would call attention to himself in a way that it would be difficult to compensate for. Most likely he would be asked to leave the palace grounds entirely.

Worst case, Dean wouldn’t listen to him and would have Castiel arrested, and would inform Lord Michael of the incident. If Michael saw him, paid any attention to him at all, it would be over. He wouldn’t just be imprisoned. He would pay with his life for the crime of trespassing in Michael’s home without permission.

He had to turn off these thoughts, had to concentrate on the task at hand. He had to trust that Charlie would be watching her information sources, which were far better than his. He likewise had to trust that Gabriel would be doing what he could from their new home, that he would be pulling together the right resources.

He couldn’t help but be aware that those resources were too far away, though. Gabriel agreed, which was why he’d agreed to the plan to alert Michael’s security.

He couldn’t let his nerves get the better of him. Ice. Think of ice. Cold, hard, logical.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

**Heya Cas. What’s up? Time is at a premium right now. Is it really that important?**

Oh thank God, he’d checked his phone.

**Yes. I apologize, I know you’re busy, but this can’t wait.**

Another short pause, and then

**I’ll be there in ten.**

A wave of mingled relief and fear washed through Castiel. This was a precipice, a narrow ledge, and he could be poised to fall to his doom--and in human form, so he couldn’t just unfold his wings and fly away.

 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck after tucking his phone away in his pocket. There really wasn’t time for this, but… he trusted Cas, even without having a real reason to. Instincts. He’d always trusted his gut instincts, even over logic. They’d rarely served him wrong.

“Garth. I’m going to go check something out. You’ve got control until I get back.”

“Roger that, boss man,” he said, saluting and grinning. “I have the con.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “This isn’t Star Trek, dude.”

“Good thing, because I’m wearing a red shirt.”

Dean flipped him off quickly, but laughed on his way out the door.

It didn’t take long to locate Cas, not when he’d just happened to check the security cameras in the control center to figure out where he was. He walked up to where he was working on some huge thing. What the hell was that, anyhow? It was a wire support that spiraled from the ground up about twenty feet, with strings of lights wound about it, and hundreds of small tubes fastened to the wire grid.

“What are all those tubes for?”

Castiel jumped, hitting his head against the structure, jostling it and making all of the tubes rattle.

“Oh. Dean.” He climbed down the ladder he’d been standing on, catching himself when one foot slid off of a rung. “They are holders for the flowers. They’re filled with a mix of water and a solution that prolongs the blooms. When the flowers arrive tonight they’ll all get filled.”

Dean looked around, saw at least thirty of the giant spirals around the perimeter of the courtyard. “That’s a fucking lot of flowers.”

“Yes. It is.” He brushed his hands off on the seat of his trousers. Cas looked uncomfortable, even nervous.

“So. What’s up, man? Why did you need to see me?”

Cas looked around. “Can we speak somewhere more private?” he asked, his voice dropping into an even lower register. That voice did something to him, caused a shiver at the base of Dean’s spine, and a quick wordless fantasy of listening to that tone in an entirely different context.

Inappropriate, Winchester. Inappropriate.

“Yeah, okay.” Dean considered where they were, then tapped Cas’ shoulder before heading off towards the arcade surrounding the courtyard. Tucked away in a corner was a small, unassuming door, nearly unnoticeable. Dean touched his security card to the electronic lock, waited for the light to turn green, then stepped inside, holding the door open for Cas. He wasn’t sure what the room had originally been. Maybe storage? It was empty now, though, aside from a couple worn wooden pallets and a lot of dust. He sneezed.

Cas stepped in as well and waited for the door to close.

“Okay, so what’s up? The wedding’s tomorrow. We’re both kind of busy here.” This had better not be an emergency booty call.

Was it an emergency booty call? In some ways that would be awesome. Having Cas push him up against the door, crash their mouths together, hands eager and questing, clothes shoved out of the way, hot fast and dirty. The stuff of fantasy.

Cas didn’t do anything of the kind. He lowered his chin, looking up at Dean through his lashes, his blue eyes deadly serious. “I have become aware of a security threat that I need to communicate to you. It is urgent, and I, we, weren’t certain that if we went through normal channels that it would come to your attention.”

Dean straightened. He took security seriously. There were a million questions starting with ‘how’ and ‘why’ and ‘when’, but the most important ones started with ‘what’. The others could be dealt with later. He raised a brow, waiting for Cas to continue.

“Are you familiar with the name Walker?”

A chill ran down his spine. “It’s not an uncommon name,” he hedged.

“Do not be coy with me, Dean, there is not time for games. The Walker Wing. Are you familiar with it?”

“Heard of it, yeah.” He worked for the Dragon Overlord of North America. Of course he’d heard of the Walker Wing.

“I have reason to believe that one of the Wing is present and intending to disrupt the wedding proceedings. He goes by the name of Gordon.” He pulled out his phone, quickly keyed in his code to open the lock screen, and turned the screen towards Dean.

“I know that face. Gordon Walker. I want to know how you know this, and why you’re telling me, but let’s start with the more important stuff. How reliable is this information, and what do you know of his intentions?”

“You won’t be able to count on its reliability without reviewing the sources, and there is no time for that. You will simply have to decide whether or not you trust me, based on the few interactions we have had. I can assure you that the information is highly reliable. We have had interactions with the Walker Wing before, and it is in our interests to monitor them to the best of our ability.”

“Who the fuck are you, man? And what are you doing here?”

A pained expression crossed his face. “Dean.” His tone was frustrated. “There is no time,” he hissed. “Even as we speak, he could be here. Walker could have any number of objectives, but it is our belief that he is planning to strike at the heart of Novak Hoard.”

“Novak Hoard? Not Anges Hoard? Because in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re in Lord Michael’s realm. Anges territory.”

“I had noticed.” There was a wealth of annoyance in that tone, layers upon layers of meaning that were all garbled together and impossible for Dean to pick apart. “Yes. Novak Hoard.”

Dean waited, arms crossed, to hear him out further.

Cas ran his hand through his dark hair, making it even more disorderly. Dean had to swallow, because shit, the man was hot and that didn’t do anything to lessen it. “The painting. ‘The Flight’. It is currently in Michael’s possession, but it is still Novak Hoard. The Walker Wing knows that its destruction would strike a serious wound. Novak is already weakened with Michael’s theft of the work, but that is nothing compared to the impact of its obliteration. And make no mistake. Walker would obliterate it.”

“I don’t understand. I mean, it’s a gorgeous painting, sure, but at the end of the day it’s just a painting, man. It’s just a piece of art. Even if it’s Hoard.”

Cas was shaking his head. “It is far more than ‘just a piece of art’. If we had hours I might be able to begin to explain, but we do not. A gross over-simplification is that it is symbolically the single most important cultural artifact of the Novak Wing, but there is more that that. Please. Just… just alert your people to be on the lookout for him. It would be impossible to miss him in draconic form, but as a human, with all of these other people here, it would not be so difficult for him to make his way inside.”

Dean’s gaze narrowed. “And you would know this because… it’s exactly what you did?”

“Dean. Please.”

It wasn't an answer, not really. On the other hand, it kind of was.

Dean should lock him up, restrain him until he found out what the hell was going on. Protocols were crystal clear on that, left no room for interpretation.

On the other hand, right now? He was the boss. He didn’t have to answer to anyone but Lord Michael himself, or maybe his chief of staff. So he could make an executive decision.

This might come back to bite him in the ass, and hard.

“Alright. I’ll get the word out to the team. But you owe me an explanation, and you’d better keep your nose clean.”

Cas touched his nose, confused, then shook his head quickly to clear it. “Yes. Clean nose. Understood.” He reached out, then, touching Dean in the center of his chest. “Thank you. This is very important to me, and I appreciate what you are doing. Thank you.” He hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and placed a quick, chaste, kiss against the corner of Dean’s mouth, then turned and slipped out of the small room.

Dean’s lips tingled for a long time afterwards.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel kept fumbling as he assembled flowers. He dropped them on the ground when the stems didn’t go into the tubes as they were supposed to. He broke the stems here and there when his aim was off. Meg was cross with him, but it was too last minute to fire him. So far his gaffes hadn’t been serious enough to outweigh the need for his assistance.

The original plan was to slip away just before dawn on the day of the wedding. That would balance minimizing the time he wouldn’t be where he was supposed to be against the benefits of using the cover of darkness to make his escape. In broad daylight no one would miss a dragon flying away from the palace; in darkness his blue-black scales would be difficult to spot.

Now, he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of Walker getting to ‘The Flight’ before he did. Having the palace security alerted was important, but he didn’t dare rely on them entirely. There was a reason that dragonkind were dominant over humans. The Walker Wing had resources. They were capable of working around the anti-dragon measures just as much as the Novaks were.

He had to admit to himself that he was nervous. No, not nervous. Concerned. He couldn’t afford to be nervous. Nerves begat errors, and he was too experienced to succumb to nerves, even if the stakes were higher than they had ever been.

He dropped one more flower, and made a decision. He couldn’t wait any longer.

The courtyard was well-lit with floodlights. They would be removed before the reception began, but for now it was important that the workers be able to see what they were doing. Castiel surveyed the area, mentally checked that his earlier map of shadows and nooks was still accurate, and decided that it was.

He took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone, texting Charlie a quick, coded message to let her know he was going in.

 

Dean knew the rest of the security staff were curious when he’d sent out the alert about Gordon Walker. Thankfully, one of the benefits of being the Interim Head of Security was that he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. What would he say, anyhow? This cute guy I met a couple days ago gave me a head’s-up about him? Which would then beg the question who was this cute guy, how did he know, was he sure the guy was a reliable source, and on and on and on.

In the end it didn’t really matter if he was a reliable source. It wasn’t like Dean was devoting extra manpower to hunt Walker down. Should he be doing that? No. His fingers twitched with the urge to do just that, but… no. The wedding was today, all of the important venues were covered, everyone had been alerted to be on the lookout for either the human form Gordon Walker or, worse, the dragonkin.

He walked around the security command center, checking on the different stations, reviewing brief reports, watching a bit of activity on the monitors. Everything seemed to be in order. Why, then, did he have this uneasy feeling?

“I’m going to do a walk-around,” he abruptly declared. “You know how to get me if you need to.” He tapped his ear, and the tiny headset wrapped around it.

“Roger that, boss man,” Garth said, smiling cheerfully.

Dean nodded, rather proud of himself for not rolling his eyes, and stepped out of the command center.

He didn’t have a particular destination consciously in mind, but somehow he wasn’t surprised to find himself in the vicinity of the antechamber. Cas had said that the painting, ‘The Flight’, was at the center of all of this. It made sense, then, to check the physical security in the area. Besides, he wanted to look at it again, now that he knew its importance. Assuming Cas was telling the truth about that, but why wouldn’t he be? Everything he’d said put he himself on the ‘watch’ list, and it wouldn’t make sense to do that unless what he was saying was the truth.

Or if he wanted to get the security force watching for something else as a distraction. No. That was certainly a possibility, but he didn’t believe it. Still, he’d keep an eye out. Just because he didn’t believe Cas was setting up some sort of an elaborate distraction didn’t mean he wouldn’t still be alert and observant about the situation as a whole. He wouldn’t cut off any existing security measures in favor of anything driven by Cas’ warning.

He picked up the pace, not quite jogging, but lengthening his stride and moving quickly. There was a lot of distance to cover. Soon he rounded the corner to the vast hallway leading to the antechamber, slowed down, and eased around the edge of the wall. He paused a moment to let his vision adjust; it was dimmer in here, without the floodlights illuminating the courtyard proper.

He wished, then, that he’d had time to call Sam or even Bobby, ask a little more about this Walker Wing. He had official information, of course, but more and more he wondered just how much of that information was censored, even from security personnel who should be fully informed about potential risks.

Something felt off. He frowned, centered himself, even closed his eyes for a moment. People tended to rely too much on their vision. When he closed his eyes he could hear better, smell better, even taste better. Taste. Taste and smell were closely related. There was something different in the air, the faintest flavor of acrid smoke.

When he opened his eyes again a shadow separated itself from the wall.

Fuck.

 

Oh. Oh no.

Cas backed up into the shadowy space behind a potted wisteria, giving himself time to assess the situation.

Gordon Walker was in the antechamber with ‘The Flight’. He was still in human form, shoulders tense with aggression.

He moved forward, his gaze unerringly flitting from one security device to the next. Cas briefly wondered what his plan was to deal with them. Did he even plan to? Was he counting entirely on his speed in his draconic form to escape, after he did whatever he was going to do?

As he watched Walker shifted, displaced air shimmering with heat and that peculiar magic that their kind had never fully defined, but all innately understood. Where one moment there had been a dark-skinned human of middle years and middle height, now there was a long snake-form dragon, red scales tipped with black, four legs tipped with long sharp talons. Most Walkers were not flying dragons, and Gordon was no exception. He had no wings, but Castiel wasn’t foolish enough to believe that made him less of a threat.

He moved into the shadows, wrapping himself in the darkness. Castiel could still see where he was, but only by enhancing his vision towards his dragon form. As a human, Walker was indistinguishable from the walls.

Castiel’s pulse rate skyrocketed until he forced it down. He had much better control over such things even than most dragons; it was part of what made him good at what he did. His mind raced, considering and discarding options of what to do. Walker hadn’t yet acted, but he would. He would.

A small sound echoed in the hallway. Cas turned towards it, saw Dean Winchester approaching cautiously. Shit, fuck, shit. This wasn’t good.

He saw the moment Walker became aware of his presence. The other’s back arched, he went still, and reversed himself with a sinuous, snake-like ripple. Castiel recognized what would happen an instant before Walker launched himself into motion.

 

Dean’s eyes widened when the shadow just sort of… _shimmered_ , and then a snake-like dragon was charging towards him, mouth open, a ball of green flame forming in the back of his throat. He didn’t have time to think, just to react. He dove to the side, hitting the floor hard. His elbow took most of the impact and hurt like a sonofabitch, but he ignored the pain, pulled his weapon with his good hand and blinked away the fuzzy vision, focusing on the threat. The gun wasn’t likely to do much of anything to a fucking dragon, unless he hit just the right spot.

Just as he was targeting, a roar shattered the silence. A blur of blue-black intercepted the red dragon, crashing into him and knocking him to the side. Another dragon? What the fuck? This one was larger, using its mass to block the blast of dragon fire. It howled, the stench of brimstone filled the air as the red’s flame coruscated over the blue’s neck and wings. The blue reared up, dancing out of the way as the red attempted to twine around it, using its more snake-like body to constrict.

Dean got to his feet and took cover around a corner, sighting down the barrel of his sidearm, looking for a shot — and wondering what the hell was taking the backup so long to get here. Surely that trumpeting dragon roar would have caught someone’s attention.

Flashes of blue, then red, then blue again, as the two massive creatures wrangled. He started to see the pattern, though, saw how the blue was throwing his weight around, attempting to crush the red. And then the red was pinned against the wall, for just a moment, but it was long enough for Dean to get off a shot.

The red hissed and writhed in pain, its coils sliding loose from around the blue. He didn’t think it was a fatal shot. Dragons weren’t that easy to take out permanently, but it was at least a temporarily disabling shot.

Or not. Its long tail whipped around so fast that Dean barely had time to see it, let alone react. It was long and massive and heavy, and the tip was barbed. That barb raked across Dean’s chest, slicing through his leather uniform jacket and the body armor beneath it as though it wasn’t even there. He bit back a scream of pain, looked down.

The edges of the fabric were smoking.

Fuck, fuck. A small, rational part of his brain recognized that it had been a slash that barely connected, or else he’d already be dead, sliced clean in half.

The blue roared again, launched forward and caught the red’s neck between its powerful jaws. The red struggled, wrapped its body around the blue, but the grip didn’t ease. The blue dragon beat down with its powerful wings, propelling the both of them into the wall with a mighty crash. Its eyes blazed a brilliant ocean blue, swimming with light, as it picked up the slightly smaller dragon like a dog with a rabbit, shaking its head with quick, harsh movements.

A mighty crack echoed, and the red went limp.

Dean tried to watch, but his vision was blurring. He touched his chest, hissed with pain, brought his hand back to see red on it.

It was getting harder to concentrate.

“Boss?” The voice in his headset was tinny, alarmed. “Boss? You there?”

He groaned, shifted to press the ‘talk’ button. “Send… help. Antechamber.”

“Dean.” Suddenly there was someone else there, kneeling on the ground beside him.

He blinked once, again, until his vision cleared enough to make out a few details. Blue eyes, ocean blue eyes, almost luminous in the dim lighting. “Cas?”

Cas touched his forehead lightly, brushed his hair back, before turning his attention to the wound on his chest. His fingers were gentle, but it still hurt when he eased back the edges of the sliced fabric to better see the damage.

“Dean. It’s a long cut, but not too deep. Painful, I know. Help is coming?”

“Yeah, I… yeah.” The voices in his earpiece were shouting, the alert sounding.

Cas hesitated, leaned forward to brush his lips against Dean’s forehead. His lips were cool, his scent dry but somehow warm, like cinnamon and apples. Comforting.

“What… where did that other dragon come from? Wasn’t Michael. He’s all gold with bright silver edges, not, not gorgeous… midnight blue.” He coughed, and the motion sent searing pain flashing across his ribs.

“It’s gone now.”

That wasn’t what he’d asked, but somehow he wasn’t managing to pull together the words into a form he could get out.

Cas brushed his fingers across Dean’s shoulder, squeezed. “They’ll be here soon. I have to leave, but you’ll be good. You’ll be fine.” His eyes shimmered, looking somehow wet. “Thank you, Dean. And I am so sorry.”

“Cas.” He reached out, managed to catch Cas’ shirt in his fingers but couldn’t get a good grip. They fell away as the other man eased back and stood again.

“Good-bye, Dean.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Dean? Dean?”

Dean burrowed down into the bedding, not really interested in responding to the anxious repetition of his name.

“Dean.”

There was someone touching his hand. Once he was aware of that, he gradually became of a constant low beeping sound as well, and the steady hum of some sort of equipment. On top of that, a sharp, antiseptic odor was layered over obsessive use of soap and other cleansers.

Hospital, then.

He shifted, winced as his chest pulled. It didn’t hurt, exactly. More like he thought it should hurt, but there were drugs keeping the pain away. He opened his eyes, blinked twice while a face came down closer to him.

“Sam.”

Relief washed over his baby brother’s face. He gripped his hand, squeezed hard, then loosened his grip but didn’t entirely let go. “Hey, Dean. Kind of a dramatic way to get out of watching the wedding, wasn’t that?”

Dean frowned at that. “I missed it?”

“Yeah, man. It was yesterday. Lord Michael and the new Lady Bela have departed on their wedding trip as of this morning.”

Images flicked through his mind at that reminder — red and blue-black, a confrontation between huge dragonkin, so violent that the ground shook. “The dragons.”

He fumbled at his side, knowing there would be a controller there that he could push to help him sit up. “Walker.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t be getting up.” Sam stilled at the harsh look Dean directed at him. “Yeah, okay. Sitting, but no more than that. And you should have some of these ice chips. You’re okay, but it’s going to take a while for you to heal and you’re on the good stuff.”

His head did feel floaty. He disliked that intensely, unless it was intentional. He accepted the glass Sam handed him, tipped a few of the ice chips into his mouth. It did feel good; he hadn’t realized just how bad of a cotton mouth he actually had.

While he sucked at the ice chips, he made a motion for Sam to continue.

“Okay, so obviously I don’t know all that much. But news gets out. The Walker dragon was killed, looked like another dragon took him out. The security cameras weren’t working for some reason, so there’s no footage of it. Still, there aren’t too many things that can break a dragonkin’s neck when in draconic form. So there’s that.”

Blue eyes. Ocean blue eyes, shifting from the brilliant gem-glow of the blue-black dragon to the softer depth of Cas’ eyes, and then back again. He frowned. There was something there, but he wasn’t ready to call it out even to himself. The other dragon had saved his life, there was absolutely no question about that.

“Anything else?”

“Well.” Sam looked around, then leaned closer, close enough to speak right against Dean’s ear. “The painting is missing. The one on display in the antechamber, with the two dragons. It’s gone.”

“Gone, not destroyed?”

Sam sat back, a wrinkle between his brows. It smoothed out a moment later. Dean swore he could see all of the gears turning in his brother’s mind. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” Well. Maybe that was a good thing? Lord Michael would be, must be, furious, but even so. It might be a good thing. Almost certainly was a good thing.

 

Dean slumped down on his sofa, the TV playing a channel he wasn’t terribly interested in; it was some sort of a train wreck of a dating show, but it was noise. He’d been out of the hospital four days now. Sam had stayed until yesterday, mother henning him in a way that was both annoying and somehow gratifying at the same time.

He reached over to pick up his phone. Nothing. Not that he expected anything. Hoped, maybe. No. Hope was a dangerous thing, and more often than not led to bitter disappointment. He’d learned very young that hope was cruel.

Whatever this tight aching feeling in his chest was, it wasn’t disappointment. Couldn’t be disappointment if he’d never hoped for anything in the first place, right? Maybe it was indigestion, or maybe lingering aches from the slash across his torso, hip to shoulder. It was going to leave a scar, though the doctors assured him that in time it would be faint, nothing more than a line. Still, he was vain enough that it bothered him.

He didn’t have that much to offer anyone. Maybe it would come across as rakish and dangerous, rather than ugly.

“Fuck.”

That hot feeling behind his eyes, that ache in his sinuses, it wasn’t threatening tears. It wasn’t. Dean Winchester didn’t cry. And if he did, it was the drugs.

It definitely wasn’t mourning the possibility of something that was never going to happen.

 

That evening, there was a soft, tentative knock on his door. That was weird. He lived in an apartment building with security. Granted it was rudimentary security compared to the palace, but still, it was security. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Maybe it was just one of the kids in the complex, running around selling raffle tickets for some sport or another. Maybe girl scout cookies. He didn’t think it was the right time of year for girl scout cookies. Maybe chocolate bars? Those could come around any time of year. Ridiculously overpriced chocolate bars that weren’t even that good, but still, chocolate.

He leveraged himself off of the sofa, grunting as the movement pulled at his wound. Dean scratched his belly before tugging the soft, worn t-shirt back into place. He looked through the peephole in the door.

Ocean blue eyes gazed back at him.

Dean gasped, literally gasped, and took a half step away from the door.

All those days of hoping, and yes it was hoping, dammit, for a response to his text, getting nothing, and now… now, he was there. Right there. On the other side of the door.

“Dean? I can hear you there.” Cas’ voice was as sexy, deep, gravelly as it had ever been, and it hit Dean low, right in the groin. “I would like to speak with you. But if you would rather not, I will leave.”

Oh no. No, no, no. He couldn’t leave. Dean flipped the deadbolt and flung the door open, standing and staring.

It was really him. Really Cas, standing there in a ridiculous slightly baggy pair of blue dress slacks, white button-down, a suit jacket, and a trench coat. And then there was the tie, blue striped, with the sloppiest knot Dean had ever seen.

“Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

They stood there for longer than they should, just staring at each other, before Dean came to his senses enough to step aside, silently inviting Cas in.

He stepped inside, stopping just inside the door, watching while Dean closed and locked the door again.

Dean swallowed. “Um. Would you, um, like something to drink?”

“Not just yet, thank you.”

Why was he acting so ridiculously awkward? That wasn’t who he was. Maybe it was the combination of still being on the drugs, less dosage than before but still enough to make his brain work more slowly. Or maybe it was because he was standing there barefoot, wearing sweatpants and his favorite old tee, ratty and stained as it was. Not exactly at his best, that was for sure.

“Okay.” He took a breath, held it for a moment, willing his head to clear enough to function better. He squared his jaw and his shoulders. “So what brings you here?”

Cas’ gaze moved over Dean, lingering, as though he were silently cataloging everything he could see. He spent longest on his chest, studying the way that Dean moved, the thickness of the bandaging under his shirt. “You seem to be doing well.”

Dean reached up to scratch the back of his neck, wincing slightly. He kept forgetting that he didn’t have the same range of motion as he was accustomed to, at least not without discomfort. “Yeah, I’m recovering. Cas. I’m not imagining it, right? You were there? After… after?”

Cas stepped farther in, avoiding Dean’s gaze. He seemed to find the bookshelf inordinately interesting. “Yes,” he finally said, turning. “It’s why I’m here, now. I wished… now that that the wedding is over, it was my thought that we could, perhaps, talk. Unless you do not wish to.” He ran his finger along the edge of the bookshelf, then pushed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. “I would understand, if you do not. I asked a great deal of you with no explanation. I thank you for listening.”

“For all the good it did. He still got in. Still almost succeeded.”

“And almost succeeded in killing you.” Cas’ tone was suddenly fierce.

“Yeah, well, almost doesn’t get the job done. I’m good.” He moved back towards his sofa. “Sorry, gotta sit. I can move around, but it’s hard, and I’m supposed to still take it easy.” He lowered himself into the cushions, then patted the arm of the chair beside him.

Cas nodded gravely and sat, perched on the edge rather than relaxing back into the upholstery.

Dean had a lot of questions. So many questions. But rather than asking them, he forced himself to relax and wait.

The silence continued for a long moment before Cas finally exhaled on a soft, puffing sigh. “You are not unintelligent, and I was not entirely circumspect in the information I shared with you,” he began, awkward as fuck. It was oddly endearing. “You may have deduced that I am associated with the Novak Wing.”

Dean’s shoulders tensed before he forced them to relax again. “Yeah. Kind of figured that out. Especially after talking with my brother. Sam.”

“Sam. Winchester.” Cas’ eyes widened. “Of course. I should have known. I am familiar with the name, though we have never met. Are you also, then, associated with one Bobby Singer?”

“My uncle. Well, not technically. But in every way that counts. My uncle.”

“Of course. I have not personally met Mr. Singer either, but my brother has been cautiously routing some information to the two of them, testing how well and how far they can be trusted with Novak business.”

“Your brother?”

“Gabriel. Dean, how much do you know of Novak? I do not wish to burden you with reciting information you are already well acquainted with.”

“Some. Not as much as I wish I did right now. Bobby, and now Sam, have made it their life’s work to study dragonkind. To find out the truth, rather than just the carefully cultivated image that Lord Michael presents. I mean, Michael’s rule isn’t really awful, not really. It’s just…” He shrugged helplessly.

“Quite. Michael’s opinion of, and attitude towards, humans is that they are useful, entertaining, and valuable. And always lesser. I still do not understand his reasoning behind marrying Bela Talbot, except that he has not yet found another dragon that he considers worthy of mating, so Miss Talbot will fill a useful role for him for the duration of her life. That is beside the point, however, beyond the depiction of the difference between Anges and Novak.”

Dean waited for Cas to continue. He felt strange, tingly. There was a sense of something big coming down the pike, something huge, something life-changing. It was frightening, but at the same time, something he was anticipating.

“Novak, on the other hand, values the humans that are a part of the community every bit as much as the dragonkin. All of us, human and dragon alike, are unique individuals, with varying skills and abilities to offer. We do not seek to rule over the vast human population, but rather to live among and beside them.”

Dean’s heart did a stutter-stop. “We.”

Cas held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded, a short, quick jerk of his chin. “We.”

“Then that other dragon, the blue-black one. That was you.”

There. He’d said it aloud, not just to himself, but out _loud_ , right to Castiel. He’d known it, deep inside, but the knowledge lurked under the surface, skittering around below his more conscious thoughts. Terrifying in its enormity.

Cas nodded again, carefully folded his hands together between his knees. It was mind-blowing, knowing that this man here in his apartment, sitting on his ratty old green velvet recliner, was not just an awkward but ridiculously hot guy in a trench coat, of all things, but was also a dragon.

He was a gorgeous dragon who had saved Dean’s life when he didn’t have to.

“I… I understand if that is something that you cannot accept,” he finally said, lowering his gaze to stare at a point between his feet on the floor. “I understand that at the time we met, it was under false pretenses, and I may be too… too… “ He made a vague gesture with his hands when words failed him.

Dean frowned, not having moved ahead with Cas. His brain had stalled somewhere on ‘dragon’, and needed a moment to catch up.

Dragon, yeah. But damn, that attraction was still there. And those eyes, those eyes!

“Hold on there, Cas. I didn’t say anything about not accepting anything,” he protested. “I might need a minute to process. I mean, this is huge.” Then he laughed, a faintly hysterical chuckle. “No pun intended. Because, yeah. Huge.”

Cas tilted his head to the side. “Then you are not necessarily averse to continuing our acquaintance? No. I must be more direct. Charlie is always telling me that I am far too vague and unspecific when dealing with other people. It usually serves me well, when I am moving among humans without wishing to “out myself”.” He even used finger quotes. Who even did that any more?

Dean’s lips twitched, but he managed to keep himself from smiling. The last thing Cas would want is any sense that Dean was mocking him, when he wasn’t. Not at all. It was an affectionate smile, and that was weird, because. Because. How was it possible to find a dragon adorably awkward? He was a dragon, at least sometimes. Powerful, huge, deadly.

He was wringing his hands right now as he searched for the words to convey what he was thinking, what he was feeling. The dichotomy sorta kinda made his head spin.

“Go on,” he encouraged, his voice soft, gentle.

Cas nodded. He lifted his gaze, meeting Dean’s. “I like you, Dean. When we met at the bar, if the timing hadn’t been terrible, I would have liked to have pursued something with you. I perhaps would have withheld my true nature for some time, had circumstances not forced my hand. It is not the easiest thing to tell another, particularly not someone that I find very attractive.”

Dean heaved out a breath. It wasn’t one-sided, then. He blindly reached for the glass that he’d left sitting on the end-table, took a long gulp of lukewarm water. He made a face at it. Warm water wasn’t his favorite, but right now he needed the wet more than he needed cold. A beer would have been nice, but beer was on the forbidden list while he was taking the pain pills.

“Not going to pretend this isn’t weird, knowing you’ve got this whole other side to you. But…” Dean shifted, reached out to cover Cas’ hands with his. “We can give it a shot. See where it goes. It’ll be complicated, but I have a feeling it’ll be worth it.”

Cas’ eyes lit up, shining with a hope that tugged at Dean’s heart. He laughed, and leaned forward.

The kiss was soft, easy, tentative. Sweet. And then it wasn’t soft or sweet, but still remarkably easy. Dean’s fingers slid into Cas’ hair, mussing it up even more. Damn, but the man could kiss. His mouth was hot velvet, his flavor cinnamon and honey.

Dean was breathless when he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Cas’. “More, please,” he whispered.

He was under no illusions that this was going to be anything but complicated. But he was certain in the depths of his soul that it would be worth it.


End file.
